


Bones Like Iron, Blood Like Mercury

by river_soul



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-09
Updated: 2012-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:15:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/river_soul/pseuds/river_soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Myrcella remembers Sansa had told her once that he was handsome and kind, this valiant brother of hers, but that was before she’d learn to speak only the empty words Joffrey demanded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bones Like Iron, Blood Like Mercury

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lit_chick08](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lit_chick08/gifts).



> This is a response to the prompt "Robb/Myrcella - "You're an idiot if you think Joffrey will ever trade for me. And you're an even bigger idiot for thinking he'll agree to a peace. What kind of king are you?"" from [asoiafkinkmeme](http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com). Many thanks to workswithwords for her beta help!

They come under the blanket of night, quiet as the silent sisters. 

Myrcella wakes to the surprised shouts of her soldiers and the spray of red against the tent wall. Ser Oakheart and the others fight bravely for her, but in the end they fall under Robb Stark’s men, the clash of swords loud and brutal. For a moment fear laces through her, tight and fast, but she does not falter. Her handmaidens shriek and cry, tugging at her arms, but Myrcella stands tall, unflinching when they enter her tent.

She thinks of her mother, the strength and dignity of the Queen Regent, and does not struggle when they pull her roughly. _Tell them how I went with my held high,_ she thinks. _Tell my mother that these northern men did not steal away a terrified girl, but something fierce and bright. The daughter of a King._

\--

Myrcella does not cry, even when the nights are dark and long, and the cold seeps into her bones. She thinks of Sansa instead, her quiet dignity and her unfailing politeness in the face Joffrey’s hateful rage. It does not suit Myrcella, and she strains to keep the sharpness from her voice when the Stark men ignore her questions.

They do not speak to her, they only march, steady and surely, northward. 

\--

They reach the Stark camp after weeks of hard travel, and Myrcella feels a spasm of shame that she is to be brought before all to see looking so wild and unkept. Her carefully embroidered dress is torn and dirtied, her hair hangs unruly about her face. She hears her mother’s voice then, _be proud and strong daughter._

She washes her face clean, until her cheeks are ruddy when the men stop by a small stream, and she braids her hair carefully into a rough imitation of the Southron way. There is nothing to be done for the dress so Myrcella shrugs the fur coat higher on her shoulders and lifts her chin. 

\--

The men in the camps hurl insults as she passes, jeers about her mother and her uncle Jamie. She has heard these whispers before, but it is something all together different to hear them from the lips of these northern men in the light of day. It dredges up uncertainties Myrcella buried away with the questions she feared to ask her mother.

“Bastard,” someone screams and the crowd takes up the cry, but Myrcella does not falter, head held high as she walks through the host of men. The green of her eyes are cold and terrible when she looks on them. _I am a Lannister of Casterly Rock_ she thinks, _you will now cower me._

\--

They bring her to Robb Stark’s tent when night has fallen, the moon a thin ribbon in the sky. The tent is dimly lit, hazy with the light of flickering candles and Myrcella’s gaze falls over the hard faced northern men who watch her with cold, unforgiving eyes. When she sees Lady Stark, her face bound in grief and fear, she thinks of her own mother, how she’d raged against her Uncle Tyrion when he sent her off to Dorne.

She gives Robb Stark, standing at the heart of them, her attention last. He wears no crown upon his head, but he commands the room all the same. Myrcella remembers Sansa had told her once that he was handsome and kind, this valiant brother of hers, but that was before she’d learn to speak only the empty words Joffrey demanded. 

Myrcella thinks he looks too wild and fierce to be the princely lord her good sister had spoken of. He is the embodiment of the name the Lannister men whispers in fear _the Young Wolf._

“No harm will come to you here,” Robb promises when she seats herself before him. “I give you my word,” he says and Myrcella thinks of Sansa, bloody and beaten, under Joffrey’s cruelties. Her gaze falters. _He has her eyes,_ Myrcella thinks.

“We will trade you for my sisters,” Robb announces and Myrcella nearly laughs, sadden and suddenly disappointed by how little Robb Stark seems to understand her brother. Joffrey, she knows, would have raged at his gall to demand a trade, but Myrcella says nothing. 

“I wish no more bloodshed,” he tells her in that earnest, kind voice Sansa had once used before Joffrey had stolen it from her. “No more men need die,” he says, and Myrcella thinks of Ned Stark, how he’d died on his knees for the honor and loyalty his son speaks with.

Pity wells within her unexpectedly for Robb Stark, but she pushes it down, buries it away with the fear. These things will not serve her. She thinks instead of her mother and the cold, sharp words she speaks to bring even the mightiest of men to their knees. 

"You are a fool if you think Joffrey will ever trade for me. And you're an even bigger fool for thinking Joffrey will agree to peace.” She tells him, rising from her seat. The room shifts, murmurs rising and falling as Myrcella sees herself reflected back in the shocked faces of those around her. For the first time, pale and golden in the flickering candlelight, she feels as strong and beautiful as her mother.

“What kind of king are you?" she asks him, tone hard and mocking. 

“The kind that will win this war and take your brother’s head,” he tells her fiercely, face angry and hard in an instant.

“My brother made that very same promise to your sister,” Myrcella tells him quietly and sees the flash of pain and guilt that falls across Robb Stark’s face at the mention of Sansa. _Does he know?_ She wonders suddenly. _Dose he know what my brother does to her?_

Myrcella knows he must love her, just as surely as Sansa loves him, but he did not come for her when she taken. He did not ride to her rescue as they say his uncle once did for his own sister when the Targaryen Prince stole her away. Myrcella feels heavy with dread and the knowledge that Sansa Stark has misplaced her faith. _No one is coming for you,_ she thinks sadly and the anger that follows, rising sharp and quick within, is unexpected.

“Your sister speaks very highly of you,” she tells him, “But I fear her trust is misplaced. For I think you will find, just as you did not wish to rescue your sister when the chance was given, my brother will not come for me.”

Robb Stark flinches and there is a small, painful victory in the way his blue eyes dim with fear and pain, so like his beautiful sister. He is no man she realizes, but a boy like her own brother, ill prepared for a crown. _Weak_ she thinks, _you are all weak._

The women are the strong ones, someone had told her once, but Myrcella thinks now that those words are nothing more than a cruel lie. _It is an empty thing, this strength to endure,_ Myrcella realizes as she thinks of poor Sansa Stark, wasting away under Joffrey’s cruelty, as she waits, so full of faith, for a man that will not come.

**Author's Note:**

> New [tumblr](http://river-soul.tumblr.com/) friends are always welcome!


End file.
